


Red Sky at Morning

by kesomon



Category: Psych, The Mentalist
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, Gen, Mind Games, Past Character Death, mentalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-12
Updated: 2008-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-18 11:18:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8160289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kesomon/pseuds/kesomon
Summary: Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.
 Six years to the day that one Burton Guster was found murdered beneath a gruesome smile, Carlton Lassiter finds himself staring at a dead man as one former psychic walks into the Santa Barbara PD.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Patrick Jane in season 1 of The Mentalist reminded me of a sedate, sober Shawn Spencer, and Red John was the perfect catalyst to turn one into the other. I wrote this originally with a plethora of plot ideas, aiming to turn it into a chapterfic. But the steam ran out, and this remains a one-shot for now.
> 
> Originally posted to FFN 11/12/2008. Edited for spelling mistakes but otherwise posted in its original format.
> 
> This story is open for adoption if anyone wishes to expand it.

He didn't know why it popped into his head, but for some reason, when his eyes flickered over to the desk calendar that morning, Carlton realised the significance of the day.

Six years.

Six years to the day since self-claimed psychic Shawn Spencer had walked out of a police station press conference, driven back to _Psych_ , and found his partner Burton Guster murdered, laid out beneath the grinning visage of a grotesque smiley-face, painted on the wall in blood. The mark of a serial killer called Red John. A serial killer Shawn had been working to catch, who he had gone on public television and practically _taunted_.

A challenge, answered with a smile, painted in his best friend's blood.

The next morning, Shawn Spencer left Santa Barbara without a trace.

Carlton had been the one to discover Psych locked up tight, taped in Police Caution-yellow, all the amenities still there, now gathering dust. His apartment by contrast was barren.

There had been rumours, of course. He'd run off to Mexico. He'd committed suicide. He'd gotten kidnapped. Killed. He was hiding.

All popular, all possibilities Lassiter refused to believe, because he just couldn't picture Shawn doing any of it.

Except perhaps the Mexico thing, but for _six years_? No. This was Spencer, with Guster's blood on his hands. There wasn't any doubt in Carlton's mind that he was alive, and fighting.

Now, six years to the day, Carlton Lassiter, Interim Chief, glanced up absently from his paperwork and found himself staring at a dead man.

And despite every conviction he held, he was surprised.

To be honest, if his attention hadn't been grabbed by the conversation taking place between the California Bureau of Investigation agents and the front desk, Lassiter might've- _would have_ \- missed him entirely. Yet there he was. Standing apart and behind of the CBI feds, his eyes taking in the police station with silence, scanning everything at a sedate, leisurely pace.

He looked different. _Older_. His hair was less tamed by fashion and gel, and a natural curl had crept into the bottle-blond tips. Gone were the jeans, the quirky shirts. If Lassiter had a word for what he saw, it would've been "sober." The Shawn Spencer he knew, had known, was replaced by this stranger, dressed to the nines in slacks and a waistcoat, of all things.

Gray and white, vibrancy washed away, a face in the crowd.

Invisible.

Carlton rose from his chair and moved towards the group, in time to catch Spencer's lightly muttered remark towards the woman of the federal pair. "You do realise he had nothing to do with the murder," the psychic said, and for a moment, he sounded like he used to, cocksure and airily smug. "He just doesn't want to tell us he was banging the pool boy. The wife did it."

"So help me, Jane, I will shave your eyebrows if you don't have proof," the agent responded with exasperation and clenched jaw. Another Deja Vu, only Lassiter was on the outside looking in.

"Spencer?"

Three pairs of eyes turned on him. Spencer's eyes widened. A grin spread over his face. And there, there was the spark that had been so expertly covered, still burning in those eyes. "Lassi!"

Six years. No word, no note, no sign; countless hours Lassiter had put into envisioning apologies, rants, whatever he would say to Spencer if he ever showed up again...

And he found he couldn't say a thing.


End file.
